


Mud

by fangirling4evs



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:13:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29969646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirling4evs/pseuds/fangirling4evs
Summary: She was absolutely infuriating, I wanted more.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle
Kudos: 21





	Mud

She wasn’t pretty. Wet, mousey brown hair, uncombed, frumpy uniform and nails bitten to the cuticle. She clearly hadn’t bothered using an umbrella today from the muddy footprints tracing her entrance to the library. My eyes trailed the mud to the speckled mary jane shoes, to the dainty ankles, the toned calves…my stomach churned. I've seen better. I've had better. There wasn’t anything particularly awe-striking about the woman, but the energy around her was powerful and palpable. Her confidence rivaled mine, and her bravery knew no limits. She was insufferable! She was captivating. The consistent tap, tap, tapping of her heel on the wooden floor while she proofread Abraxas’s essay only fueled the anger I felt towards the small frame across from me.  
As I ruminated on the slight girl, the moron on my left stifled a sickening cough. Pathetic. Her eyes flew to Abraxas, compassion radiating towards the undeserving boy.  
“I’ve circled the run-on sentences and made notes on the side where you need to give more details on the process.” Her mane seemed electric as she leaned forward, towards me, sliding Abraxas’s work back to him. My fingers itched to yank, pull, make her cry out - but I refrained.  
Abraxas nodded appreciatively, slung his bag over his shoulder and tucked the chair back into the nook. As he turned to leave, Bruce glanced back at her and blushed as he stuttered “Would you like to -”  
His eyes met my darkened gaze and he shakily finished, “...audition for the winter musical?”  
Her eyes glimmered happily as she politely passed on his offer and turned back to the text in front of her, a soft hum accompanied by her rhythmic breaths.  
I must be going mad. There is no other way to describe it. It isn’t logical. My image would be tainted to be seen with such a homely, insufferable, enthralling girl who treats me so normally in comparison to the others. There is no way that I would fall prey to her empathetic and forgiving nature. I had no need for frivolity like care. But yet, the small, quiet quip of her lip when she reads something funny makes my stomach do flips. And every second she spent helping Bruce with his homework made me want to hurl books at him until he couldn't walk anymore.  
The silence was deafening.  
“Have you finished Professor Dumbledore’s project yet?” I shifted in my seat, partly intrigued, partly to hear the light, northern drawl that must originate from somewhere in the northern states, not that I’m curious to know.  
She dog-earred her page and met my condescending stare with one of equal confidence.  
“Yes. Two weeks ago.”  
Of course she did. Her perfect handwriting, neatly tucked shirt, and row of glimmering teeth screamed perfectionist. She was more than punctual.  
Her eyes narrowed in a challenge as she retorted, “Did you?”  
I scoffed, “Obviously.”  
Then she threw back her unkempt hair and laughed. Our little game of one-upping each other halted as she wiped the tears gathering at her makeup-free eyes. When she had regained composure, she met my arched eyebrow with a look that made my self-controlled expression falter for a moment. When she looks at me across the table, it isn't sympathy or admiration or attraction. It is respect. It is confusing. It makes my finely-tuned brain malfunction and my heart wanting more.  
Abruptly she grinned mischievously and I felt the cold realization on my ankles; mud. She wiped mud on the exposed gap of my ankle! I let out a verbal scowl in disgust and gave her a look that would make any normal woman panic. But she sent me another cocky smile, then with a dramatic flourish, she wiped the non-existent crumbs from her wrinkled, water-stained uniform and stood up, book tucked under her arm. Then, sending a comical air kiss in my direction, she left, leaving another trail of mud in her wake.  
I will hesitantly admit to only myself, that maybe she is my equal afterall.


End file.
